


Sleeping Sound

by ishouldwritethatdown



Series: Fluffy Rinch Goodness [7]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Insomnia, M/M, Oh no there's only one bed..., Sharing a Bed, except they're dumb about it because of course they are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 21:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18018761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishouldwritethatdown/pseuds/ishouldwritethatdown
Summary: It's rare that Reese and Finch have to travel outside of the city for a number, but when they do, just their luck that the guy happens to be staying at a motel that only has one room left vacant...And there's only one bed.





	Sleeping Sound

**Author's Note:**

> i'd like to thank Dylan for suggesting this... i didn't realise how much i missed writing these losers

“Booked almost solid,” Finch said, readying the key as he walked over to one of the doors. As John followed, he added, “We have the last room.”

“Lucky us,” he said. The room was like any motel room – fairly drab and just a touch too small to be totally comfortable. And there was just one bed. As they entered the room and left their bags on it, John eyed the floor for a spot to claim if this ended up dragging into the night.

Setting up surveillance on Mr. Wright across the lot was a cinch; just a case of waiting until he left his room to get something to eat and planting a camera in a discrete place. After that it was a waiting game.

“You should get some sleep, John,” Harold suggested, about fifteen minutes after Wright turned in and the camera switched to night vision. He extracted a book from his bag and cracked it open to a page near the middle.

“Someone needs to keep an eye on the feed.” They couldn’t let him sneak out without them noticing – and if Harold got engrossed in his book, Wright might easily slip out in the dark.

“No need, Mr. Reese,” he said. “The camera I had you install comes equipped with a motion sensor. If Mr. Wright moves, the computer will alert us.” He seemed quite proud of himself. He’d ‘hacked’ steakouts.

Ingenious as it may have been, the motion sensor didn’t detect anything until mid-morning, well after John’s internal body clock woke him up. As far as he could tell, Harold had not slept a wink that night; he had apparently finished the book he had started with and got through a whole other one.

He didn’t have time to deride Finch for his sleeping habits, though, because Mr. Wright was on the move.

They didn’t get back to the motel, number safely in police custody, until late that night. It was a long drive back to the city after a not-particularly-restful day, and Harold noticed that John seemed exhausted. He suggested spending another night at the motel to rest up.

“We really want to get another number while we’re out here?” he asked.

He frowned. “No, but as I see it, we don’t want to get another number with you in this condition, either.” He sat down on ‘his’ side of the bed, furthest from the door.

“I’m fine, Harold,” he insisted, not at all convincingly. He seemed to catch the insistence on Harold’s face, because he sighed and relented. He started to set himself up on the floor again, but he stopped him.

“Take the bed, John.”

He paused, and looked between it and the slightly musty carpet. “Floor’s better anyway.”

“I find that exceedingly hard to believe,” he said.

He sighed again, clearly too tired to keep arguing, and pulled off his suit jacket. “Fine. Three hours, and then we get going. …Finch,” he added seriously, making him look up. “Three hours.”

He replied with a nod and took out his book. After John had washed up in the bathroom and stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, he pried the covers away from the mattress and muttered, “It wouldn’t hurt for you to get some shut-eye, either.”

He glanced at him, but didn’t respond. John lay on his side, facing the door with his back to Harold, and before long he went as still and silent as a rock. It was always mildly disturbing seeing John sleep, especially when he was recovering from something. Often the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor was the only thing keeping Finch from panicking.

About two hours later, an odd sound broke Harold away from his book. The humming of the A/C was the only thing he could hear when he listened, and the soft lamplight he was reading by didn’t give away any disturbances. He decided he might have imagined it.

He heard it again, but this time it was identifiable as a sharp, shallow intake of breath. John flinched in his sleep, a tiny movement, but it felt immense. He hadn’t so much as shuffled since he lay down.

Clearly he was having some kind of nightmare, and Harold swithered about what he should do. Interrupting the only deep sleep he’d had in at least 52 hours was logically not a good idea, but at the same time it felt cruel to leave him flinching and fussing.

“John,” Harold said, and it came out soft, not committing all the way to waking him. He reached out a hand, intending to shake his shoulder a little, but when it rested there, John leaned into his touch.

His flinching and unsteady breathing stopped, and instead caught itself in Harold’s throat.

…

…What now?

He couldn’t keep a hand with John and read his book at the same time. He put the novel down and shifted to make the position a little more comfortable on his back.

His thumb made a small back-and-forth motion on John’s shoulder, and strangely he found it comforting himself; the rhythm of it, the way John’s skin felt under his. There was an old scar there, a slightly raised wobbly line, and tracing over it felt like the swinging of a pendulum in a grandfather clock.

…

When John woke, it was to a warm, comforting feeling on his shoulder that he didn’t quite understand. At first it had seemed so natural in that place that he hadn’t paid it any mind, and then as his senses started to return to him, he was burdened with confusion.

A slow, delicate twist of his neck – causing as little disturbance to the presence as possible – he strained in his periphery to see Harold at his back, dozing. He had his hand resting on his shoulder like it belonged there, and his glasses had gone skewed. That told him that he hadn’t intended to take them off, hadn’t intended to sleep.

The sunlight pushing its way intrusively into the room from under the door told him that they had been asleep much longer than three hours. Harold gave a soft snore behind him, and he smirked, bringing his knuckles up to hide a smile that no one could see.


End file.
